


Such Love Without Knowing

by StarlingGirl



Series: Hamilton Christmas Trash [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Matchmaking, Mistletoe, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21779884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlingGirl/pseuds/StarlingGirl
Summary: “Why the fuck do you need my help?” Hercules asks, brandishing a fork at Alexander. “This seems kind of like a two-person deal.”Alexander shuffles his feet, and mutters something that Hercules doesn’t catch.“What?” he demands.“I’m not tall enough to put the mistletoe up,” Alexander says, loud enough to hear but all in a rush, so it comes out as one long word all strung together.Hercules has been watching John and Alexander circle each other for too long, now, and he might notwantto get involved in Alexander's ridiculous, mistletoe-based scheme, but at least it will get the job done, right? Wrong.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Hamilton Christmas Trash [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559524
Comments: 13
Kudos: 140





	Such Love Without Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> Implied/referenced sexual harassment tag is for a brief conversation towards the end of the fic about how gross people can be about mistletoe sometimes.

“If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter. ”

_ ― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief _

* * *

"Remind me again why I have to be involved with this?" 

Hercules is sprawled out on the couch, arms hooked over the back and chin tipped up. He's still in his sleep clothes, feet bare. There's an empty coffee mug on the table; he casts a longing look at it.

In front of him, pausing for a fraction of a second in his relentless pacing, Alexander scowls. 

"Are you even listening to me?" Alexander demands. Hercules rolls his head to one side so that his exasperated gaze is fixed now on his friend. 

"Almost never," Hercules says flatly. Alexander chokes out an offended noise. "But definitely not when you hammer on my door at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning just to ramble on about Laurens. Again."

"Again?" Alexander repeats, and Hercules' apathy is piqued for a moment to amusement at the guilty look, the flushed cheeks, the flustered words. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Means that if you said to Laurens half of what you say to me on a regular basis, I wouldn't be getting pulled into some dumbass mistletoe scheme." Hercules pulls himself up off the couch, snags the coffee mug, and ambles back over to the kitchen. There's no such thing as enough caffeine in his bloodstream to keep up with Alexander—boundless, non-stop—but there  _ is _ such a thing as enough to bear him. 

"It's not that simple," Alexander is sputtering behind him. Hercules says nothing, just keeps fixing himself a coffee, letting Alexander fill the silence. "I mean, I can't just  _ tell _ him. John is—well, John is  _ John.  _ I don't even know what I would say!" 

"First time for everything," Hercules mutters as he opens his fridge and stares into it. Alexander doesn't seem to hear him. 

"And anyway, this is romantic, right?" Alexander asks, but doesn't pause for an answer. "And I know John has this whole thing going on, chill as fuck about everything, but he's actually a  _ hopeless _ romantic. Did you know he's watched pretty much every single terrible Netflix rom-com? And  _ enjoyed _ them?" 

"You might have mentioned it," Hercules says, and reaches out to gently push Alexander out of the way, carton of eggs in hand. "Once or twice."

Alexander watches Hercules crack eggs into a pan with furrowed brows.

"You don't think it's a good idea?" Alexander asks eventually. His voice is carefully pitched to conceal his genuine concern, but he's never been the best at hiding his feelings. Hercules sighs. 

"You know him better than I do," he offers, because honestly this is none of his business, or at least he wishes it weren't. He suspects John will be less concerned with the trappings of a romantic confession than the confession itself. Really, Hercules ought to just shut up and be grateful that one of them is finally,  _ finally  _ making a move.

Then again, there’s this horrible premonition pressing at the base of skull, whispering that Laurens and Hamilton dating might be even worse than Laurens and Hamilton pining after each other like the annoying protagonists of a teen romance novel.

“Yeah? Yeah,” Alexander says, settling back down into the determined confidence of five minutes ago. Hercules tries to flip his eggs, succeeds only in making a mess out of them. He gazes at the pan forlornly, and wishes he had some bacon. Alexander continues, oblivious. “I do know him, and he  _ will _ like it. He’ll love it. He’ll be swept off his feet and they’ll make a niche but relatively successful Netflix Original about our love, probably. So you’ll help?”

Hercules resists the urge to take himself, or possibly Alexander, out with the frying pan. Instead, he retrieves a plate, scrapes his eggs onto it, and goes back to the fridge for hot sauce.

“Why the fuck do you need my help?” he asks, brandishing a fork at Alexander. “This seems kind of like a two-person deal.”

Alexander shuffles his feet, and mutters something that Hercules doesn’t catch.

“What?” he demands.

“I’m not tall enough to put the mistletoe up,” Alexander says, loud enough to hear but all in a rush, so it comes out as one long word all strung together. Hercules stares at him for a long moment in disbelief, snorts a laugh, and then snatches up his plate and turns and walks back to the couch. Alexander follows, because of course he does. “Please,” he whines.

Hercules almost throws his fork across the room in frustration.

“If I agree to help, will you  _ leave _ ?” he demands.

“Immediately,” Alexander promises.

“Fine. Get out and leave me to my breakfast in peace, you love-sick little shit.”

Alexander grins. It’s wide and bright and he actually _ bounces _ with excitement, which is enough to make Hercules roll his eyes but also to ignite a fond little feeling somewhere behind his sternum that he won’t admit to for anything.

“You’re my hero,” Alexander croons. Hercules kicks a leg out towards him; Alexander manages to dance out of the way just before it connects with him. “We’ll name our first child after you!”

“Get the fuck  _ out _ ,” Hercules demands, and Alexander goes, laughing as he skitters across the apartment to escape the cushion that Hercules flings after him. It hits the wall with a soft  _ thump _ , and Alexander blows a kiss before the door closes behind him.

Hercules pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a calming breath, and eats his damn breakfast. Wonders if it’s socially acceptable to just go the fuck back to bed and ignore everything for another few hours. His phone lights up, and he sees a message from Alexander.

_ >Where can you buy mistletoe??? _

He groans out loud, and leaves his phone on the coffee table as he trudges back towards his bedroom, and the pile of warm blankets that by all rights he never should have had to evacuate in the first place.

* * *

“To the left. No, other left.”

Hercules looks down at Alexander with his best unimpressed expression, arm stretched up and sprig of mistletoe pinched between his fingers.

“You’re aware that left is not subjective, right? We’re both facing the same damn way.” Alexander waves a dismissive hand at the criticism. Hercules moves the mistletoe sprig an inch to the right.

“There,” Alexander says, and hands him some tape. “Perfect.”

It takes five pieces of tape to secure it above the lintel, the small, silvery bough heavy with berries and unwilling to be pinned down. Hercules steps back, hands still outstretched. He waits a beat, and then steps back again when it looks like it’s going to stay in place without aid.

“Tell me I don’t have to stick around for this,” he says. It’s early—too early for this bullshit, but he’d promised and Alexander is nothing if not persistent—and he’s trekked across town to John and Alexander’s workplace just to do this before John arrives. Alexander’s office is a nightmare, a sprawling mess of paperwork and reference books and other assorted bullshit. It makes Hercules itch just to look at. For some reason, having his back turned on it is even worse.

“You do not,” Alexander says. “But I bet you want to.”

“There is nothing in this world I want less than to watch you two suck face,” Hercules says, bluntly, but then Alexander—whose hearing must be better than Hercules’, or perhaps just tuned more precisely to John Laurens—gives him a wide-eyed, panicked look, and shoves him through the door into the office. Hercules stumbles over a stack of folders haphazardly taking up an inconvenient spot on the floor just inside the doorway.

“He’s here,” Alexander hisses.

“Then why the fuck am I  _ in your office _ ?” Hercules asks, a question which he considers entirely reasonable but which is met only with a frantic hushing. Alexander whips around at the sound of John calling his name, and leans against the doorframe, over-casual. Hercules wonders if it’s ruder to watch this go down, or to stand there with his hands over his eyes. 

“Hey, Laurens,” Alexander says, and John comes to a stop just outside the office, earphones still hooked around his fingers where he’s removed them, bag slung over one shoulder.

“What up, Ham? Oh, hey Herc. What are you doing here?”

Hercules freezes, caught in the act of trying to maneuver himself out of direct line of sight from the door. Alexander throws a look over his shoulder that’s half panic and half betrayal, like Hercules had  _ voluntarily _ become embroiled in this nonsense.

“Just… visiting,” he says, lamely, like it’s even slightly normal to visit your friends’ workplace at eight-thirty on a Monday morning. John’s expression is just about as confused by the poor lie as one might expect.

“Right,” he says.

“He was just leaving,” Alexander provides, helpfully. John looks between the two of them, and Hercules hates to think just what suspicions are blossoming in the mind of John Laurens right now.

“Well, you wanna watch out,” John says, flicking a finger upwards at the mistletoe above the door, now hanging down wonkily where the tape has given up and peeled away from the wall. “Looks like someone’s been busy.”

“Oh,” Alexander says weakly, staring up at the mistletoe. “So they have.”

“I’m gonna put some coffee on,” John says cheerfully. “Want some?”

“Sure,” Alexander says, and John carries on down the corridor. Alexander watches him go. Hercules snorts.

“That went well,” he says. Alexander flips him off without looking. Hercules squeezes past him in the doorway, reaching up to pluck the mistletoe from above them and making a kissy face at Alexander as he does. He gets a smack in the chest for his trouble, and snickers at the sulky pout on Alexander’s lips before he slips out of the office. “Maybe next time, huh?”

“Shut up,” Alexander says, and disappears into the mess of his office without another word; Hercules huffs a satisfied laugh at the sound of a stack of folders toppling over onto the floor. He pockets the mistletoe, and makes his way back out of the building.

* * *

“Who wants to see video of hell freezing over?” John asks as he drops into the chair next to Hercules, brandishing his phone in one hand. Alexander, trailing after him, swipes at it half-heartedly; John merely pulls it out of his reach, planting one hand on Alexander’s chest to keep him from getting close enough to snatch it.

“Ooh, me,” Lafayette says, immediately leaning forward eagerly. Hercules grunts noncommittally and pulls his drink towards him to make room for John to push his phone between them, tapping play on a video that he’s already got queued up.

The footage is shaky, like he was laughing when he filmed it; when it swings into focus, it’s clear enough why. There’s Alexander, in what looks like the office break room, arms folded across his chest. In front of him, Thomas Jefferson, imperious and scowling, his pose matching Alexander’s almost perfectly. And above them—

“—mistletoe,” Hercules says flatly, and looks up directly into Alexander’s glowering expression. “Wonder who put that there.”

“Yeah, it’s been cropping up all over,” John snickers. Hercules raises an eyebrow. Alexander scowls. Glancing back down, Hercules watches on the small screen as Alexander and Jefferson both try to push past John, arguing and speaking over one another. John’s laughter in the video is echoed by his laughter in real life.

_ “Hey, I don’t make the rules,”  _ John says in the video.  _ “But I am enforcing them.” _

_ “Fuck off,”  _ Jefferson says, crisp and cool.

_ “No can do, Jefferson. One way out of this room, and you know what it is.”  _ Jefferson scowls and Alexander looks utterly betrayed. 

_ “Laurens, there is no way _ —” Alexander says, and then his words choke off as Jefferson rolls his eyes, turns, and ducks his head to press a kiss to Alexander’s cheek. Next to Hercules, John cackles as the camera view swings wide, presumably as Jefferson pushes John to one side to exit the room.

Lafayette laughs delightedly, and pulls the phone towards himself, rewinding the video to pause it on the frame of Alexander’s appalled face as Jefferson’s lips connect with his cheek. “I think I would like this framed,” he says, turning it for Alexander to see.

“This is workplace harassment,” Alexander mutters.

“We are not at your workplace,” Lafayette reminds him, and screenshots the frame, thumbs flying across the phone screen as he sends it to himself, and quite possible everyone in John’s contact list.

“And we don’t work with you,” Hercules adds. “How many times have you washed your face since then?” Alexander shoots him yet another betrayed look, and wiggles himself onto John’s chair. John shuffles up so that the two of them are both half-perched, legs pressed close. John hooks an arm around the back of the chair, and Alexander isn’t even subtle as he leans into it.

“I don’t know who put the mistletoe up,” John says decisively, “but after this, they’re my new favourite person.” Hercules lifts his glass to his lips, takes a long draft of cold beer, and watches Alexander’s expression struggle between pleased and pissed off.

“How about that,” he says.

* * *

“Okay, fine, so maybe the office isn’t the best place for mistletoe.”

Hercules blinks at Alexander, who’s only just opened the door to his apartment but is already talking like they’re midway through a conversation. Not that he’d been suffering under any delusions about why Alexander had asked him to come hang out, but it hadn’t seemed too crazy to expect there might be a gentler segue into the mistletoe thing. Clearly, he was mistaken.

“I don’t know. Another few attempts and you and Jefferson might realise that your mutual, burning hatred has just been repressed sexual tension this whole time.” Hercules pushes in past Alexander, ignoring the aggrieved, choking noises he’s making. He flexes his fingers, still chasing some of the feeling back into them, and reluctantly slides his jacket off.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Alexander says, primly, and closes the door behind him.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, man. You really want to do romance in  _ here _ ?”

They both look around. Alexander’s apartment is small, and packed with mis-matched furniture that he’s aggressively fond of. The bookshelves are beyond capacity, books two-deep and stacked atop each other, piles littering the floor in front of them. One chair is piled high with clean laundry, not yet folded; another has a mess of papers sprawled across it. There’s a dead houseplant in one corner.

“Yes?” Alexander says, like he doesn’t understand the question.

“You know when you said you were forced to watch those Netflix rom-coms with Laurens?” Hercules asks.

“I was mostly watching him, actually,” Alexander says, and his tone is wistful. Hercules forestalls the inevitable description of how John has this one freckle on the end of his nose that’s more beautiful than Monet’s whole canon, or whatever.

“Yeah, that checks out. Alright, give me the damn mistletoe. Don’t see why you couldn’t just stand on a chair, or whatever.”

“The chair can’t offer me moral support and wise advice.”

“At this point, neither can I,” Hercules says. Alexander smacks him, open palm catching him right across the bicep. Hercules looks nonplussed, reaching his hand out expectantly until Alexander drops a sprig of mistletoe into it. “How much of this stuff did you buy, anyway?”

“At this rate? Not enough.”

With a snort, Hercules lets Alexander direct him to the wide archway that leads through to the kitchenette, and presses a thumbtack into the wood, shoulders beginning to protest faintly as he spends too long reaching upward to try and hook string around it to tie the mistletoe up.

“Happy?” he asks, when he’s done.

“I’ll be happy when it serves it purpose,” Alexander says, surveying the mistletoe with his hands at his hips and a look of deep satisfaction sketched across his features. Hercules thinks that the mistletoe is almost lost in amongst the clutter of the apartment, the loud check of the kitchen tiles behind it.

“Well, text me and let me know how it goes, or whatever,” Hercules says, because for all his bitching he does care about his friends, would be happy to see them happy. “I’m out of here.”

Hercules messages Lafayette, but he’s got some swanky networking event to hit up. The invitation to join him is extended freely, but Hercules has never been great at schmoozing, and anyway, he hates wearing ties. Lafayette’s probably better off without him there anyway. Instead, he heads home—picks up a pizza and some beer on his way—and settles in for the evening on his couch, flipping through channels until he finds that  _ Alien _ is on, expecting at any moment to get a text from Alexander.

But Alexander doesn’t text.

The credits roll, and still nothing _. _ Hercules considers shooting off a message of his own, just a row of question marks, but then figures that maybe a kiss under the mistletoe led to… more than a kiss under the mistletoe, and feels a bit gross at the thought of interrupting. By the time he’s halfway through  _ Aliens _ , though, pizza and beer all gone, he gives in.

> _ do i want to know how it’s going? _

He hits send and drops his phone, not expecting much back by this point. Then his phone lights up, and Alexander’s  _ calling _ him. Hercules stares at his phone for a long few seconds before he picks up.

“I swear to God, Hamilton, if you try to give me  _ details _ —”

“I forgot!” Alexander wails. “I had it all planned out. I was gonna be so smooth! And then he turned up and he brought these Christmas cookies he made me, and honestly they were kind of terrible but he’d put in so much effort and my heart just couldn’t  _ take _ it. I got distracted by his stupid cookies and his stupid face and his stupid, beautiful mouth. Ugh.” 

Hercules begins to wish he’d bought something stronger than beer.

“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You forgot about kissing Laurens because you were too busy thinking about kissing him.”

“Well when you put it like that, it sounds pathetic,” Alexander whines, pathetically.

“This whole thing is pathetic. I’m hanging up. Just fucking  _ tell _ him, Hamilton.”

He hangs up. He drags a frustrated hand across his face. He sets his phone on the coffee table, face-down so that he can’t see the flood of messages that are no doubt rushing through from Alexander. He tries to relax.

“God fucking damn it,” he says, about sixty seconds later, when he finds that he  _ can’t _ . He snatches his phone back up, ignoring Alexander’s demands that he pay him attention, and opens up a message to Lafayette. “I deserve better than this,” he mutters to himself as he types.

* * *

“—you think this will work?” Lafayette asks doubtfully, steadying the chair that Hercules is standing on to hang a sprig of mistletoe from the ornate light fitting nestled against the high ceiling of Lafayette’s apartment. After a very abridged version of events, he’d agreed to let Hercules hijack the evening’s Christmas gathering ‘in the name of love’.

“I think if it doesn’t, I’m just going to bang their heads together,” Hercules says. He ties off the twine and steps off the chair, examining his handiwork. The mistletoe spins gently on the string, low enough that it can’t be missed, or  _ forgotten _ about, obvious enough that people can avoid it if they want to. “You can’t tell me you’re not sick of this, too.”

“Well, yes. A few days ago, John made me stay on the phone for an hour and a half while he tried to bake cookies for Alexander. He seemed very stressed about it.” Hercules snorts a laugh at that, but doesn’t elaborate on his amusement. “You got the idea from the video of Alexander and Thomas, yes?”

“What?” says Hercules.

“The video of Alexander and Thomas trapped under the mistletoe. I am still curious as to who put it up. I thought it may have been John himself, but he has assured me most fervently that it was not.” Lafayette elbows him in the side and grins. “Unless you have been sneaking around their office, putting up mistletoe and trying to trick them into admitting their feelings.”

“Ha, ha,” Hercules says, not quite convincingly, as Lafayette—who, up until this moment, Hercules has always considered relatively intelligent—laughs. Hercules wonders if ‘oblivious’ is contagious.

People start arriving soon enough, and Hercules busies himself helping Lafayette mix drinks and take coats. The Schuylers all arrive at once, brightening the room considerably with their loud laughter and Christmas-themed sweaters; Lafayette’s neighbours hover awkwardly by one wall, apparently intimidated by the easy familiarity of the rest of the group. When John and Alexander show up they are, of course, together. 

Hercules beats Lafayette to the door to greet them. He plucks John’s scarf from his hands, and practically wrestles Alexander out of his jacket before he puts a hand on both of their shoulders and propels them forward into the room.

“You kids have fun,” he says.

“Uh, thanks?” John says. Alexander stares at him, perplexed. Hercules tips his chin, flicks his gaze up towards the mistletoe swaying gently in the wake of Lafayette breezing by it with a bowl of chips in his hands.

“Oh,” Alexander says, delight and something that Hercules might identify as  _ nerves _ if he didn’t know better flitting across his features. “Ohhh.  _ Fun _ . Yep. C’mon, John. Let’s go have fun.”

Alexander hooks his arm through John’s, and begins to drag him into the room. He’s about as subtle as a brick to the face, and not for the first time, Hercules wonders just  _ how _ the two of them have managed to go this long without noticing that they’re each head over heels for the other. Still, they’re only four steps and two seconds away from overcoming their own idiocy, at last. Lafayette sidles up next to him to watch.

“What is this?”

Angelica strides right in front of Alexander and John, forcing them to pull up short. She sticks one balled fist onto her hip, and points a finger up at the mistletoe hanging from the light. Though she’s not actually tapping her foot angrily, she looks like she might do so at any second. Her gaze is firmly fixed on Lafayette.

“Uh… it is mistletoe, is it not?” Lafayette offers. Angelica scowls.

“Yes, thank you. I know that much. I mean why is it  _ here _ ? It’s an outdated tradition that encourages unwanted sexual advances by using peer pressure to restrict the ability to say no.” Lafayette blinks at Angelica, and then at Hercules. Hercules could  _ scream. _

“Ange,” Hercules says, patience straining. “I get that. But we’re all friends here. No one’s forcing anyone to say yes to anything.”

“Sure,” she says, sarcastically. “It’s okay at a party with your friends, then it’s okay at a party where your friends are there but so are a bunch of strangers, and then suddenly you’re at the office Christmas party and your boss has it pinned to his belt and is asking all the women in the room for ‘a kiss under the mistletoe’.”

“Wow,” Lafayette says, after a moment.

“Did your boss actually do that?” John asks, taken aback. Next to him, Alexander looks like he’s  _ sweating. _ “The fuck?”

“That’s gross as hell,” Hercules agrees, and can’t believe the defense of mistletoe that’s about to spill from his mouth. He resigns himself to it. “But consider the fact that in a context of familiarity and trust free from general societal expectations,  _ like here and now _ , it’s just damn cute.”

“Why?” Angelica demands, because she’s never one to step back from an argument and, in this case, admittedly on the correct side of the argument anyway. “Who in this room are you so desperate to kiss, Mulligan?”

“Oh my God,” Hercules says, exasperated. He stalks over, pushes himself onto his toes and reaches up, just about able to get his fingers onto the dangling branch. He pulls; after a few tugs it comes free of the string, leaving it dangling empty. “Are you happy?” he growls.

“Yes,” she says, primly. 

“You know,” John says thoughtfully. “I’ve seen more mistletoe around this year than I can ever remember seeing before.”

Something inside of Hercules  _ snaps _ , and it feels like his patience.

“Why do you think that is, John Laurens?” he demands, wildly, brandishing the mistletoe in his hand. “Think it’s a coincidence? Think mistletoe just suddenly got real popular again? Or do you  _ maybe _ think that  _ someone _ has just been trying to come up with a way to kiss you that doesn’t involve having to admit his feelings with his words like a regular, adult human?”

“I’m confused,” Hercules hears Eliza mutter behind him. “Is Hercules in love with John?”

“I thought Alexander was in love with John,” Peggy shoots back in a low voice. John and Alexander are both staring at Hercules with wide eyes; whether they didn’t hear the exchange or they’re simply choosing to ignore it, it’s not clear.

“Uh,” John says, eloquently. 

“Hey, man,” Alexander says, but then trails off.

Hercules manages to wrestle back some of his calm, and glances around. His friends look hopeful or anticipatory or nervous or, in the case of Peggy, downright gleeful, phone out. Lafayette’s neighbours look like they’d rather be anywhere else in the world, right now. He regrets his outburst almost immediately.

Then again, when he turns his focus back to the two idiots in front of him, he notices that John is staring at Alexander with something like wonder on his face, all knotted up between his freckles. Alexander hasn’t noticed because he’s too busy staring pleadingly at Hercules. Typical.

Hercules lifts the mistletoe, stretching his arm up and letting it hang from between his fingers, and raises a questioning eyebrow at them both.

“You put up the mistletoe?” John asks softly, glancing up at the branch Hercules is holding. Alexander’s gaze snaps back to him. He swallows visibly.

“—yes?”

“Because you wanted to kiss me?”

“Well, I sure as hell didn’t want to kiss Jefferson,” Alexander says. John laughs. Hercules does his best to seem like he’s  _ not _ standing less than a foot away from them, intruding on this possibly-romantic moment, holding a sprig of mistletoe somewhere above their heads. He really, really didn’t think this through; he wants nothing more than to shuffle away and leave them to it, just like he’s wanted every other damn time Alexander has tried to rope him into this. But his arms are only so long.

He inches away anyway, and flashes Lafayette a dark look when he hears him snickering.

“It was stupid,” Alexander says hurriedly. “I should have just  _ said _ something, probably, but you know, I thought it might be—”

“—romantic?” John asks, a flash of a smile between his teeth. Neither of them seem all that concerned that there’s a whole room full of people watching them; then again, neither of them is exactly a stranger to being the centre of attention. Especially when they’re together, loud and unapologetic and wrapped up in each other. 

“Yeah,” Alexander mutters.

“Weirdly, I think you nailed it,” John says, and glances up at the mistletoe dangling from between Hercules’ finger and thumb. Hercules sidles another half-inch away, stretching out to keep his arm in the same place. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you fucked it up pretty bad—but it’s still ended up somewhere in the region of romance.”

The tension in the room is palpable. Hercules notices from the corner of his eye that Lafayette’s neighbours are edging towards the door, as subtly as they can manage. He really can’t blame them.

John reaches out, curls his fingers into Alexander’s sweater, and pulls them both firmly under the mistletoe and Hercules’ rapidly tiring arm. Angelica opens her mouth; Hercules shoots her such a vicious, warning look that she closes it again, looking mutinous.

“Hey,” John murmurs.

“Hey,” Alexander returns.

It’s agonising to observe, and only made worse by Hercules’ proximity. And yet, just like everyone else in the room, he finds he can’t  _ not _ watch this—a collision too long in the making, like two stars whose slow drift into each other's orbits has finally brought them tumbling together, their gravity inescapable. He can’t even bring himself to resent it, because the smile on John’s face is  _ blinding _ , giddy, and Hercules’ own lips have twitched upwards in response without stopping to check with his brain first.

Alexander slides his hands behind John’s neck, and pushes himself up onto his toes. John presses a palm against Alexander’s cheek. When they kiss, it’s with smiles cradled between lips, slow and lingering, chaste but no less tender for it.

Peggy’s phone camera flashes.

It’s the catalyst for the rest of the room. Lafayette, pretending that he isn’t blinking away tears, whoops. Eliza claps her hands together with unrestrained glee; Angelica mutters ‘gross’, but she’s smiling. Lafayette’s neighbours are frozen by the door, grins settled into something stiff and still just a touch confused.

Hercules lets his arm drop.

“About damn time,” he says. Alexander presses another kiss to John’s lips, John’s fingers all tangled up into his shirt like he doesn’t want to let go, and then turns towards Hercules without putting an inch between himself and John. John kisses Alexander’s cheek, his ear.

“Told you it was romantic,” Alexander says, smugly. Hercules purses his lips and watches the two of them, tucked together in each other’s space, and decides that yeah, this is probably going to be even worse than it was before.

“You’re fucking welcome,” he says, brandishing the mistletoe, and then flicks it right at Alexander. It hits him in the face, dead on. Some of the berries scatter on impact as Alexander sputters; one of them hits John right in the forehead and bounces off. 

“What the fuck,” John says.

“It’s the least you oblivious assholes deserve,” Hercules says. “Can we get back to the party, please?”

It’s much later, long after Lafayette’s neighbours have made their excuses—“I will never again get them to attend a party,” Lafayette says mournfully, once they’re gone—and glasses have been emptied and filled and emptied again, that Hercules wedges himself between John and Alexander to sling an arm over each of their shoulders. It’s the first time all night they’ve been separated by more than an inch or so.

“Alright, listen up,” Hercules says, pulling them in close. “‘Cause I’m only gonna say this once.”

“Oh, god,” says John, trying to wriggle out from Hercules’ grip but failing. Alexander seems resigned to it. “What is this? You’re not about to give us a weird joint shovel-talk, are you?”

Hercules fixes John with a calculating look. “Why? Do you need one?”

“What? No!”

“Well, then. Let’s assume you both have honorable intentions, and move on.” Hercules says. He’s warm, because this apartment is crowded and there’s whisky in his bloodstream and because there’s a ragtag collection of people scattered through this room who love each other. He’s never exactly been the sentimental type, but sometimes it hits him at just the right angle, and he ends up here. Searching for the words.

“Full disclosure,” Alexander says. “I don’t know if some of the things I’m planning on doing with John could be called  _ honorable _ .” John shoots a wicked grin at him, and Alexander winks, and Hercules wrinkles his nose.

“Guys, can you— _ not _ do that while I’m like,  _ right _ here? Jesus,” he mutters. “Shut up and listen, will you?”

John must catch something in Hercules’ expression or tone, because his lascivious grin falters into something softer. “We’re listening,” he says, dutifully.

“Good,” Hercules says, and then pauses again.

“How long do we have to listen for, exactly?” Alexander asks, because he’s impatient and tactless and probably counting the seconds that he’s not holding John’s hand, or something equally pathetic.

“I’m happy for you guys,” Hercules says carefully, ignoring the question. “You’re my friends, and I care about you, and I’m glad you got your shit together.”

“Aw,” Alexander says, and wriggles a hand up to pinch Hercules’ cheek. “Couldn’t have done it without you, buddy.”

“I mean, you could have,” Hercules says. “I wish you did.”

“Could not,” Alexander repeats slightly louder. “Have done it.”

“We love you too, man,” John says, because it’s always been easier for him to say shit like that, wielding it like defiance, like rebellion. 

“Shut up,” Hercules says, gruffly, and finally releases them both—only for John to pull him immediately into a hug, and Alexander to join in too, so that he’s wedged between them. He feels another pair of arms join the tangle, and manages to twist his head to see Lafayette behind him, smiling beatifically like he’s never been happier. “Hey! No.  _ No. _ This isn’t what I wanted.”

“It is what you are getting,” Lafayette says, and then Eliza practically _ pounces _ on the knot of people, and Peggy follows. From somewhere to his right, John laughs, the sound muffled where he’s been pressed against his friend’s shoulder. Hercules levels a distressed look at Angelica, the only one not heaped in against him. She sighs.

“Sorry, Mulligan,” she says with a shrug. He grumbles as she steps in too, between her sisters, and wraps her arms as far as she can around them.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, after a moment. “Merry Christmas. I get it.”

“And God bless us, every one,” Eliza says in a high-pitched voice, then giggles. They break apart, and Hercules shoves Alexander towards John in the hopes that they’ll at least keep each other out of his damn way for five minutes.

“Go whisper sweet nothings to each other, or whatever,” he says. 

Alexander grins, all mischief, and leans over to whisper something into John’s ear. John swallows visibly, and clears his throat. Hercules regrets.

“This is all my fault,” he says bleakly to Lafayette, by his side.

“I am afraid so,” Lafayette says, with mock solemnity. He tugs on Hercules’ arm, pulling him around and back towards the table pushed against the wall that’s groaning under the weight of the food and drink piled onto it. “I am sure it will get better.”

“—how do you feel about naming our first child Hercules, by the way?” Alexander asks John from behind Hercules, his voice no longer low but intended to carry. Hercules reaches deliberately for a bottle, and resigns himself to this new reality.

And maybe, when no one’s watching him, he stands in the corner and watches Alexander, one hand gesturing widely as he argues with Angelica, the other tangled with John’s, and finds that he really, really doesn’t mind it at all.

**Author's Note:**

> And still more Christmas trash AUs! I noticed I'd been neglecting Hercules, and somehow this one hit the other extreme and ended up from his POV entirely. Go figure. It also got real mushy at the end because today has left many of us in dire need of hugs, I think.
> 
> I love to hear your comments and thoughts! Plus, [come chat shit with me on tumblr.](https://seekstrivefind.tumblr.com/)


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